


Turdus Migratorius

by tokii



Series: 壊れた方 [18]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 00:57:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokii/pseuds/tokii
Summary: Timmy recounts his experience under the influence of Scarecrow's fear toxin. But as he considers the troubling events that unfolded during the mission, he finds that examining his subconscious reveals too much about himself, his relationships, and his mantle.Tag: Orange (Caution)
Series: 壊れた方 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542805





	Turdus Migratorius

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophisthoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisthoe/gifts).

Turdus Migratorius

Nyctalus Lasiopterus, I muse. Batman.

"Tim, I'd like you to tell me what happened to you. This is a safe place, and I'm here to listen."

I tune out Black Canary's singsong voice, and gaze at the rising and falling of my heart rate on the electrocardiogram. I realize she's reaching out, trying to help me cope with the horror that I experienced at the hands of my captors. But she's here because Bruce asked her to be here. He wants a psychological analysis determining how much emotional trauma I sustained, since the physical trauma I endured is considerably more apparent.

"Tim, you can talk to me," she reassures me.

Turdus Migratorius, I say to myself. This is the Latin name for the American Robin, a species belonging to the Turdidae family and the Passeriformes order. In laymen terms, the American Robin is a passerine bird. And I, Tim Drake, belong to this family of passerine birds.

Black Canary leans forward and tentatively asks, "Timothy, I want to understand what you've been through."

Nyctalus Lasiopterus, I say to myself again. A rather rare species... It's the binomial name for the Greater Noctule Bat, a carnivorous Chiroptera with wings evolutionarily adapted for open-air hunting. A trait unique to its species is its preference to prey on passerine birds in flight. This is because Nyctalus Lasiopterus relishes the chase. It savors the thrill of tracking its prey through the night and consuming it in the shadows. Batman is the Nyctalus Lasiopterus. And I am his third Robin.

Black Canary's tone grows sterner, "Timothy, are you listening to me?"

I won't give Bruce the satisfaction of an answer, indirectly or not. I'm not a child he can fix. Just because he couldn't save the last one doesn't give him the authority to probe my mind. That's why I'm here, isn't it? And why I decided to do this in the first place? It’s because Bruce couldn't save his Robin. So, he fell into despair and lost himself in the night. Bats depend on their hearing rather than their sight, using echolocation to detect their prey. But Bruce was broken and deaf. Without echolocation, a bat will starve. I was the light that brought him back from the darkness. And he made me his right-hand, his new Robin. Turdus Migratorius, a passerine bird, is the prey of the Greater Noctule Bat.

"Tim," Black Canary says impatiently. But she says nothing more. She only looks at me with sad, wondering eyes.

What harm could I do in telling her what happened? Hell, she can tell Bruce I've lost it, that I need to be thrown in with the crazies in Arkham. He'd only find himself another Robin. Nyctalus Lasiopterus – the great Batman, who preys on passerine birds… Fine. Out of spite for the great bat.

I just lay there, bleeding out, the searing pain in my shoulder and back hampering my movements. I wheezed in breaths - each feeble effort bringing a fresh onslaught of pain. I thought I was going to die. And I welcomed the thought. Death would mean peace. But I just lay there, in hell, unable to move, unable to die. I felt Scarecrow's fear toxin slowly creeping over my bloodied body - the fumes clawing at my flesh, searching for my mind. It began as a pleasant, tingling sensation, crawling through me. Then it clogged my veins and numbed my senses. It fed off what little strength I had left. And it found my mind, clouding it. Gurgling cackles began to accompany me in the darkness. I grew terrified as I realized they were my own. So, I lay there, on the damp stone - unable to move, unable to die, unable to cease laughing at my own inevitable demise.

And I looked up. My... my father, was standing - standing above me, bleeding from a wound in his chest. He held a rusted boomerang in his hand, and I, I saw the tears stained on his face. I squeezed my eyes shut and stifled a moan - the memory of my father's death torn from me and implanted into a nightmare. I told myself it wasn't real, it wasn't real - but it was. I forced my eyes open. And he stared back at me, cool and emotionless, his eyes dark and unblinking. He said he had asked me to stay - man to man, father to son - and I left anyways, with the man shrouded in shadows. I don't remember him saying that the night I left on patrol, but it sounded true now. He continued that - for all my skill, for all my training, for all my love - I was too late. I was too late to save him, too late to say good-bye. He said it was too late to apologize, and he dropped to the ground, dead. And I drowned in his blood.

•••

Everything was dark, and my mind was flooded with emotion. Reality was fuzzy, but what I saw was vividly real. My father was lying at my feet. A figure cradling a limp mass walked towards me. I recognized the symbol of hope on the man's chest, and a tear slipped from my swollen eye. I told myself it wasn't real, that I shouldn’t hope; but it was real, and I did hope. Conner’s eyes met mine. His were dark and expressionless, the sky blue lost in the night. I saw that he was carrying Bart in his arms. I tried to look away, tried to mask the brokenness rising in my throat - tried to remember what was real. But I hadn't seen him since that day - the day I realized I had lost everything - and I could not look away. I had to see his face, even if it wasn't his. But he just stared at me, indifferent to my suffering, and he dropped Bart at my feet. And Conner sunk to his knees and hung his head. He let out a sigh, and said my name, slowly. Tim. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, and through wet eyes I beheld the shell that was my friend - my best friend. Conner. He lifted his head, and his dark eyes studied my broken face - not a trace of recognition. And I reminded myself that it wasn't rea—

"Tim," he said again.

A tear rolled down his cheek, but it didn't belong to him. It belonged to Scarecrow, to the toxin surging through my mind. It belonged to the darkness that was this reality.

"You weren't there," he said.

I choked, and I remembered that he was right. My hands began to tremble. My friend...

"You weren't there… for us, for me," he glanced at Bart, lying lifeless beside me.

"I'm sorry," I croaked.

But he didn't hear me. It wasn't Conner, after all.

"You were too late," he sighed, "you were my friend... and you were too late."

I groaned at the pain, the knowledge, and the truth...

"You were supposed to be there. You were our leader, Tim. You formed the team to protect us - for us to protect each other. And you led us to our deaths."

My lip quivered, and I began to say I was sorry, so sorry. But it was too late. He fell, and I drowned in his blood.

•••

My head hurt. My stomach churned, and I coughed up a warm, frothy liquid that ran down my cheek in streams. Of the living, I was alone… until I wasn’t. And then I wished that I were. A demented cry echoed in the darkness. I recognized the deranged cacophony that resonated off the walls of my prison - that reeked of death and attracted madness like flies to shit.

_"Wakey, wakey, little birdie."_

The disturbed melody stung my ears, and I reminded myself that this wasn't r—

_“Oh, tsk-tsk, but it is, my little Robin..."_

The thin, sickly figure sat in the darkness, behind the bodies of my friends and father. He cocked his head to the side and waited. I said nothing. I couldn't... the fear toxin had taken my mind, and my tongue. He straightened his pale neck, and brushed the chemical ridden green hair from his bloodshot eyes. He pushed himself up onto his feet and sauntered towards me, swinging a metal crowbar in his gloved hand.

_"Not my favorite toy for youu, little Red, but it seemed to work rather well on the last bird."_

And at that he flung his head back and screamed a sickening laugh into the dark space, amused at his own joke. The Joker. How quaint. I would imagine him to appear in Jason's hallucinations, not mine. And yet...

_"Ah, ah, ah, hehe, don't get ahead of yourself, little birdie. I'm not here to HURT youu, heh, just here to do a little storytelling. Punchlines are my forte."_

He knelt beside me, rather elegantly for a lunatic, and delicately rested his folded hands across his stained, purple pants.

_“Now, for a tale about a little birdie who thought he could fly… You see, he craved for the wind's touch on his red feathers, and he longed to rise above the treetops in the night. So, - and this is my favorite part - he leapt from the nest, straightened his wings… and tumbled to the ground. Ha, ha, HA, HAHA, hehe.”_

Spittle flew from his crooked mouth. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. So, I just listened, utterly revolted.

_“For the little Red Robin had broken wings, and he could not fly. But, HAH, he was convinced he could. He told little Batsy and little Batsy butler that he could fly. And they believed him. He told all the other little Robins that he could fly, and they believed him enough. So, walking along the forest floor, he told all his little friends that he could fly... and they believed him. And little as they were, and seeing that they themselves could not fly, they made him their leader. The little Red Robin, who couldn't fly. But he thought he could, and everyone believed him."_

Joker stopped, suddenly, and looked thoughtfully past me. It was an unnerving sight, to catch the Joker deep in thought. His mind is a damned bottomless pit. His eyes settled on the bodies surrounding mine, and he whipped his rotting face around and gawked at me. His grin widened, and I felt sick.

_"Hoo, hooo, hee, hahaha, ahhh, but the little birdie was a FOOL to think he could fly, for his wings were broken. Still, one by one, every little bat and bird and forest creature followed him up the tree. They believed that he could SAVE them, for he was a birdie of the flying variety. And one by one, they celebrated and jumped and fell from the tree, to their deaths. And the little Robin -tried as he might, hehe- was too late. He was too late to save them, for his wings were broken, and he could not fly. But they kept jumping, regardless. Oh, yes. They jumped, believing he could fly and save them. And the little bloodstained Red Robin tried to join them in death, by jumping and falling.”_

He paused. And he glanced at me, smirking. He tried to read my face, to see if his story had ruffled the Red Robin’s feathers. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I glared at him through my swollen eye. So, he continued.

_“But he was not so lucky. You see, tee-hee, the little bloody Robin could not die. He could only watch, and try, and fail, and arrive too late. Because the little Red Robin could not fly, for his wings were broken… And his loved ones died not knowing that he was A LIAR. HAHAHAHAH HAhaha, hoo, cack, heehaa, cough, ahahaaha. He could only drown in their blood, staining himself red. And then he would awake and realize he could not join them. He was just a stupid little birdie with broken wings, which could not fly. And everyone believed him."_

The crowbar swung towards my face and everything went dark.

My eye fluttered open - the other swollen shut. I lay there, covered in blood... mine, others'. I winced, groaned, and rolled my head to my right. The bodies were gone. The Joker was gone. It was dark and quiet, and the place reeked of copper and fluids. I rolled my head back so I could stare up into the darkness, a pain-filled sigh escaping my lips. The fear toxin had abandoned me - left my mind fuzzy, and my thoughts broken and tainted with false memories. I squeezed my eye closed and sucked in a wheezing breath. I could not move, could not breathe. I would be found too late - just the bloody remains of a boy who was always too late. At least my death would be filled with irony. The Joker, at least, would find it funny. In his sick story, I was the punchline. I was the joke - the bird that imagined he was something he was not. I was the boy who garnered others' trust, and led them, if only to their deaths. I see why the Joker laughed. Even as the Red Robin's loved ones fell to the ground, he still believed he could save them. He had believed his own lie. And he was too late to realize it.

Phantom wings fluttered against my flushed cheek, and I felt the stone shifting beneath me, disintegrating into damp soil. I squinted into the light refracting from the canopy, a light rain of frantic creatures suddenly filling my field of vision. I watched the little bloodstained bird lean out over a scarred, twisted branch. And he watched the falling creatures thrashing through the air, cheeping at their savior. Bodies thudded into the detritus around me. Sunlight splintered across the ruined bodies, their lifeblood leaching into the mulch. Realizing what he had done, the Robin spread his pitiful wings and leapt after them, hoping to join them in death. But he could not be so lucky. The Robin’s fractured wings twitched, his body sinking into the pooling of blood on the forest floor. The moribund bird flapped and floated down the crimson rill towards me, over the decaying leaves and the bodies of little creatures. And I suddenly became overwhelmed with the death, and the lie pervading my leaking skull. The Red Robin trilled a discordant note, his lungs filling. And we drowned together in the forest creatures’ blood.

•••

A sound rang in my ears, and I was yanked from oblivion. My head swam. I heard someone call my name. The tone was familiar, as if from a forgotten dream - a man’s voice, deep, worn weary by the world. My vision swirled but there was no mistaking it. He stood above me, Gotham’s Dark Knight, one with the shadows. He called my name, only…

“Timothy,” he spat. 

And then I remembered. Chills shot up my spine and panic flooded me. The fear toxin had lingering effects, and the rush of terror was deafening. The corners of his mouth turned up as I recognized the voice. My voice.

“Hello, ‘little bird’,” he rasped, “I see you’ve had an unpleasant encounter with our mutual friend. Sick bastard. Well, luckily, we’ve put him in the ground. We’re the last one, you and I, the only person left. The best company is one’s self, after all.”

I loathed the man masquerading as Batman. I looked up at myself through a painful, squinting eye. I’d aged. The stubble on my chin was graying. A gun was fastened tightly to my hip.

“Ah, you do remember me,” he chuckled, “I should hope so. We do bear a striking resemblance to each other. Want to know my favorite memory of when you visited me?”

I suppressed a groan and spat blood on his grimy, black boot.

“No? Well, I’ll share it with you anyways. It’s quite touching, actually. We were standing in our personal graveyard. Bruce’s name was carved in the lichen covered stone at our feet. He died as he lived - shrouded in darkness, unfulfilled, and in his prime. Then we passed Alfred’s mound, the poor old man. Then Cobblepott’s, Dent’s, Nygma’s, Kyle’s… you remember.”

He flashed his teeth in the darkness, “The whole family was there. And it’s all because you did what Batman couldn’t.”

He bowed stiffly and pulled the gun off his hip.

“This is the pistol that killed Thomas and Martha Wayne.”

He turned the worn gun over in his palm, scrutinizing it. He paused and glanced at me. Sighing, he dropped to one knee, and looked into my face. Our cerulean eyes flicked back and forth, studying each other’s expressions, reading the other’s thoughts. We were the same person, he thought. But I was nothing like the man kneeling before me. I would _never_ become him.

“We’re a good person, Tim. You broke Bruce’s rule, and saved the lives of thousands. Gotham is a safer place. We always knew that we would surpass Bruce’s excellence, no matter how much you hate to admit it. You tell yourself you’ll never become Batman, never become me. But we both know that’s a lie.”

Then _I_ was standing, older, with gray stubble on my chin. A light exploded and I shielded my eyes. A shot had fired and thudded into flesh somewhere in the darkness. Bruce was several yards from me, clutching the emblem on his chest. He, as Batman, and I, as Batman, stood before each other. And he grimaced, pointing to something in my hand - the pistol that killed his parents… We collapsed at the same time - I, from fatigue, and he, from the bullet I shot into his chest. Only, it wasn’t me.

“Oh, but it was,” I chortled “and now it’s too late. I’ve changed.”

No. It’s not real, I reminded myself. It was a lie. It wasn’t real, not really. Bruce and I lay beside each other, both dressed in black, both donning the cowl, both dying.

“You’ve broken his rule - the only rule a Robin promises not to break. Congratulations, you’re a masterful liar. You might make the better Batman after all.”

And the gray stubble disappeared. The gun dissipated, and the cowl dripped off. Bruce lay beside me, gasping for breath. Batman. Nyctalus Lasiopterus. The hunter. And I lay beside him, wheezing, the darkness swallowing me - his Robin. Turdus Migratorius, a passerine bird - the bird that evaded the night and killed the bat. No, not real. It wasn’t real… not... And I drowned in Bruce’s blood.

•••

My shoulder spasmed as I regained consciousness. The pain had dulled. My thoughts were muddled, but the toxin seemed to have left me. My back was wet. The pooling around me suggested class III hemorrhaging. Not good. I needed to check my vitals. The weight on my chest was crushing - fear, constricting and tangible. My weak pulse had quickened. 96 beats per minute. My body was going into shock. And, God, it was getting hard to breathe. I had to focus. I counted 30 seconds: respirations… 28, labored and irregular, with poor tidal volume. How long had I been lying there, on the damp, sticky stone? I tried to remember... remember. Fear. Darkness. Glowing eyes in the night. Scarecrow. Deathstroke? I couldn’t remember. I’d been hallucinating. Bruce… My neck was stiff, and I couldn’t see him in my peripheral vision. Had they taken his body? No. It’s a lie, I reminded myself… all just a lie. I’d been hallucinating from the fear toxin. My dad. Bart. Conner. It wasn’t real. Joker and his story. A lie. The Red Robin. A liar. And… I paused. My cheeks flushed with heat. The Red Robin. _A liar_. I bared my teeth and pushed the thought from the haze that was my mind. I… I lied? No. No, it wasn’t real. It was a fear-induced hallucination - the bird that drowned in the forest creatures’ blood. _The liar. _My aching jaw tightened. The bird. The lie. Me. I lied. And… they died. My dad. Conner. Bart.

Something clicked in the bleak expanse, followed by a pattering against pitted stones. The dull notes reverberated through the void of stagnant, stale air. Ice prickled my spine and my breath caught in my throat. I wasn’t alone. A streak of purple slipped behind a shadow in the distance. I strained to listen, my pulse thudding in my ears. A soft giggle climbed the walls, and boots ran playfully across the cellar floor. And I heard the sweetest voice…

“Catch me, Timothy.”

A sob escaped my cracked lips before I could catch it. I clasped my hand over my mouth and sucked in a ragged breath. Stephanie… Her hair tickled my burning cheeks, and her grin widened as she traced my jaw. Her hand slipped over mine, and she pulled both to her chest, our fingers intertwined. I tasted her lips, and another sob escaped. Steph… With a trembling hand I brushed her forehead, tucking her golden locks behind her ears - something I would never do again. She shied away and laughed, as she had done so many times atop Gotham’s rooftops under the stars. Through blurry eyes I studied hers, twinkling pale in the night. I let my hand linger, and stroked the curvature of her cheek, grazed the point of her nose... knowing that I would never feel the warmth of her skin again. I was too late. Her eyes gleamed in the twilight, and she smiled, her features fading from my mind. Then all I tasted was the damp, the cold and the blood. The bloodstained bird that couldn’t fly - that wasn’t a lie. But I still couldn’t move, still couldn’t breathe. Salt streamed down my face, dripped and swirled in the dark rivers flowing from my shoulder. I breathed her name... Steph. Only apathetic silence answered. _And then he would awake and realize he could not join them. _The Joker’s words sunk deeper as the night grew blacker. And death would not welcome me.

•••

I heard voices again - familiar, but not from a dream. A memory. I lifted a heavy eyelid. _It’s a lie. It’s not real. It’s not - _real? Dick was kneeling over me, crinkling his nose. He glanced up. His voice sounded troubled. It’s real, I thought to myself. A second, unwavering voice resounded. Bruce sat beside me, his expression unyielding. I drifted in and out of consciousness, but I heard a "blood poisoning" and "extensive hemorrhaging" here and there. It seemed that the Joker was right after all. The little birdie was unable to die. He could only show up too late.

•••

“Timothy? Tim, did you hear what I asked?” I’m still lost in thought, and Black Canary’s words seem distant.

I suddenly remember that I'm lying in my own bed, in Wayne Manor, recuperating. Bruce had sent Black Canary to deduce the severity of the lingering effects of Scarecrow's fear toxin. I look at her through my swollen eyes. I can't muster a sane reply.

Concern washes over her face, and she asks, “Tim, do you remember what happened to you?”

I look away to avoid her insightful gaze, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I tell myself to breathe. But all I see is Conner. My friend... his eyes dark, expressionless - the sky blue lost to the night. I purse my lips and breathe in. My dad’s lying at my feet next to Bart. I exhale, slowly. I’m looking at myself, older now, with gray stubble on my chin. My hands are stained red. And the darkness comes flooding back, bringing the damp, toxic fog with it. I struggle to inhale. My chest hurts, and my lungs are on fire. I’m lying next to Bruce - the great Nyctalus Lasiopterus. We’re both donning the cowl, both gasping for breath. I think he’s looking at me in disappointment, until I realize he’s stopped breathing. A bird is floating lazily between us in a streamlet of blood. Turdus Migratorius. The Red Robin. _The little liar_. Joker’s shrill laughter echoes in my ears as I taste Steph’s lips and my eyes snap open. I catch my breath and grimace - at the loss, at the pain, at the lies. _And his loved ones died not knowing that he was a liar. _Steph’s smile fades, and I bury the brokenness. I bury it within the dark entanglement of false memories.

“Timothy?” Black Canary’s face is contorted with empathy.

The haze still lingers in my mind.

"No, I… I don't remember anything," is all I can bring myself to say.

_Liar._ I rest my hand over my sensitive eyes. _You little liar._ And I see the little bloodstained bird, lying on the forest floor with its broken wings. _The little Red Robin, who couldn't fly. The little bloody Robin who could not die. He could only watch, and try, and fail, and arrive too late._

I wince and give a labored sigh, “I don’t remember anything at all.”

_And everyone believed him._


End file.
